Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/413

Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it;
 Yet I have a tear for woe
Every bullet has its billet,—Man
 the boat, boys—Yeo, heave yeo!

Shrouded in a hammock, glory
 Celebrates the falling brave;
Oh, how many, famed in story,
 Sleep below in ocean's cave!
Bring the can, boys—let us fill it;
 Shall we shun the fight? Oh, no!
Every bullet has its billet,—Man
 the boat, boys—Yeo, heave yeo!

The Fairies' Song.

We dance on hills above the wind,
And leave our footsteps there behind,
Which shall to after-ages last,
When all our dancing days are past.

Sometimes we dance upon the shore,
To whistling winds and seas that roar;
Then we make the wind to blow,
And set the seas a-dancing too.

The thunder's noise is our delight,
And lightnings make us day by night;
And in the air we dance on high
To the loud music of the sky.

About the moon we make a ring,
And falling stars we wanton fling,
Like squibs and rockets, for a toy;
While what frights others is our joy.

But when we'd hunt away our cares,
We boldly mount the galloping spheres;
And riding so from east to west,
We chase each nimble zodiac beast.

Thus giddy grown, we make our beds,
With thick black clouds to rest our heads,
And flood the earth with our dark showers,
That did but sprinkle these our bowers.